


Say Something Loving

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [10]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Casual Sex, Character Death, Come Shot, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Monsters, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Out of Character, Rejection, Rough Sex, Sad Ending, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: They call you ‘Witcher Woman’, the herbalist that caters to the guild, shunned by your human community. Geralt escorts you into a forest to pick a rare flower. The trees are sentinels for many secrets.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 23
Kudos: 185





	Say Something Loving

Geralt of Rivia had been frequenting your apothecary for years.

Your herbs and reagents were some of the best available, due to the care you took in sourcing and preparing them, and summarily Witchers went out of their way to visit your shop whenever possible. It was a double-edged sword to balance upon; their coin was generous, but your association with them meant that your small-minded village looked down upon you. In time, you moved further and further to the outskirts of the settlement, until finally you made a home in a cottage built from stone and clay with your own hard-working hands at the edge of the forest. Away from people. Outcast.

It was a lonely life, but it was yours, wholly, and you celebrated that fact instead.

You grew wildflowers in a haphazard wash of colour, letting them sprout and bloom as they chose. You kept a lazy mule with a splotchy white coat to carry your belongings when you travelled. Fresh vegetables were plentiful in your garden, and a wild plum tree was generous to you in spring-time. For everything else, you covered your head as best you could in a cloak and tried to ignore the scowling, skittish stares of the townspeople when you went to market.

When you paid, they didn’t take the coin from your hand; you had to drop it on the counters. When you passed by children, they scattered, or threw pebbles and called you a witch. Men leered at you or told you to _watch your back_ , because someday they’d not tolerate the threat you apparently imposed upon the village.

But you knew something they did not. Witchers were not supposed to feel – and many of them believed the legend that was so rigidly impressed upon them – but they did.

Maybe they didn’t realise it themselves, but you saw it in the way they treated you with gentle care. The way they insisted on proper payment, or repaid you with interest when they were short of coin. The way some of them sat as you ground dried herbs and spoke about their upcoming hunts, or a rare mutation they had seen in a monster, or their desire for harder, more challenging work, because they were sick of drowners and ghouls. You always listened, and were treated to their laughter, the relaxing of the strict shield they hid behind, and their company. ‘Witcher Woman’, they fondly dubbed you. You grew to appreciate the sanctity of the nickname. And you knew that none of the village men would dare lay a single finger on you, because the retribution would be _merciless._

Because other people – human people – would not so much as touch you, you found your carnal comfort in the Witchers. They were needy and hungry things, and more than once you’d taken one as a lover on the floor of your house, or the small straw-stuffed mattress, or up against a tree outside; the sating of lust, slaking of thirsty desire, flesh-on-flesh. Never did you revisit an encounter with any one Witcher, however; after your curiosity had been indulged, you went back to a relationship of professional benefit. If it bothered any of them, they never told you.

Geralt, though. He was different.

The first time he’d entered your shop, you’d felt the pull of something unearthly, holy; he, crowned with snow-hair and blessed with sharp, leonine features seemed ethereal to you, and considering you were not unfamiliar with his kind, the feeling made you uneasy.

He’d wanted mandrake root.

You’d fucked against the wall.

It was a brush of his hand as he took the wrapped package, the jolt of contact that had both of your eyes flying up to connect; the cat-slit dilated his precious gold irises, and your tongue swept your cupid’s bow subconsciously. After that he was upon you, devouring your mouth, domineering as he claimed ownership of your every whimper and moan with a rumbling snarl. He shoved up your skirts and knelt, ate your cunt with a rough, skillful tongue and the rub of his dry thumb-pad on your clit until the friction caused your knees to buckle; he hoisted your legs up around his waist and pushed the thick length of his cock into the cling of your walls as you climaxed, fucking you powerfully through the mewling gasp of your orgasm and effortlessly into another one. His mouth was everywhere; your breasts, your neck, biting, marking, and with a shuddering groan you’d felt him thicken within your stretched, raw walls, spilling hot and fast and frantic within you. He came a river, enough to drip onto the floor between you, and only when you had both caught your breath did he release you.

In the aftermath he was gentle, fetching a wet cloth to clean you, as you slumped dazedly on your reading chair by the hearth. He hadn’t spoken much, did not kiss your lips again, but you exchanged a glance that said everything necessary before he parted.

He forgot the mandrake root.

You weren’t sure if it was because of pride or because he was caught up with other business, but it took him a full week to return for it. You smirked as you handed it over, and he grunted at your expression; your thumb brushed his wrist, and he stiffened. Again that feeling, the _pull_ ; something between you expanded and contracted like the first breath of a universe birthed, the explosion of supernovas and the settling of far-away galaxies. He pulled you into his arms.

This time, you tangled together on your bed, and he took his time. He wanted to explore every last inch of your flesh, tasting and testing, needing to know what made you shiver or squeal or giggle or sigh. You came sticky rivers down his forearm when he finger-fucked you; bucked desperately against the scrape of stubble when your thighs clamped around his face between your legs; came apart when he teased the hypersensitive button of your clit with the ridge of his cock, not even entering you. When you were a sweaty, delirious mess, you expected him to sate his own desire with animalistic vigour, but he did not; he took you slowly, sweetly, spooning you from behind as he thrust into your aching cunt. His massive hands cupped your breasts, and you threw one leg over his hip to open yourself to him, rocking in a rhythm as he absolutely purred at the shell of your ear. Your final orgasm felt like the hot prickle of a bath, a submerging of heat that was languidly delicious, and he moaned into your neck, joining you, the sticky spill of his release filling you as he held you like a prized possession to his chest, panting.

When he left, he didn’t forget the herbs. And he didn’t forget _you_.

You began to look forward to his visits; you could never anticipate them, staggered as they were, but every time he ducked into your shop – even though you’d made the door high to accommodate the height of Witchers – you felt the same pull, the same thrill rush through you. You relaxed your rule of ‘just once’ entirely for him; he took you against the counter, outside amongst the wildflowers, rudely interrupted your bath and made a giant mess for you to contend with after he left. You delighted in sucking him off, testing his endurance; once he sat with spread legs on your chair as you worked him to the brink for nearly an hour, spurred by his dark grunts and stuttering, lustful moans. When he did come you’d barely been able to swallow all he had to offer, but the feral sound he made was worth the sticky drip down your chin.

After him, you took no other Witcher as a lover. You knew that they could not sate you the way he did. Your business was steady, your work plentiful, but that was all it was. Business.

At night you lay in the bed he’d worshipped you on so many times and thought of him. You began to miss him, and that worried you. Witchers could not be tamed. And that legend? You knew Geralt believed it – or at least, he _pretended_ he did. Still, you touched the space beside you on the small mattress and wondered if he ever thought of you, too.

—————

The next time he visited, you were bursting with excitement. You had need for a reagent in the forest – an incredibly rare flower that only bloomed once a year – but there was talk of a cluster of water hags and rotfiends working together in the marshy centre. Right where the flowers bloomed, as the fates would have it. And you wanted those flowers.

“Well met, Geralt.” You trilled as he entered your dwelling. You didn’t hear Roach outside, which was unusual. He picked up on your elated mood and was immediately suspicious.

“What’s got you all grinning, hmm?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“I’ve need of your services.” You informed him grandly, and he huffed out a small laugh.

“That shan’t be a problem.” His voice was a delicious growl, lustful, and you had to resist the shiver that wanted to claim your body. Forcing yourself to focus, you shook your head.

“No, not _those_ services. Not right now, I mean.” Your smile grew as his confusion did, and he tilted his head, silent, waiting for you to continue. “I need to travel into the forest. I’m in need of a flower, but also protection. There’s threat by the lake.”

He bristled, and grunted. “I’ll go pick your flower. There’s no need for you to put yourself in danger.”

“Will you, now?” You challenged, and held up the last two specimens you possessed; one was viable and could be used, the other was not. They looked incredibly similar. “Which of these would you pick?”

He hesitated, eyes darting between them, trying to decipher the differences. Even with his heightened senses, he didn’t know what he was looking for, and eventually he relented with a low growl.

“That’s what I thought.” You were a bit too smug, and as a punishment, he pinched your backside. You squealed and swatted his hand. “I’ve coin, of course, and it’s a day’s ride—”

“Roach threw a shoe, and is stabled in town.” Geralt murmured, “And _I_ won’t be the one to take coin from the Witcher Woman.”

You frowned. “Well, two days’ walk, then. It doesn’t bloom for long. And you won’t be taking my coin if I slip it into your bag instead.”

“I’d love to see you try and pull that off.” He challenged, and you lifted your chin, stooping to grab a pack that you began to fill with supplies.

“Is that a yes, Geralt? You’ll come with me?”

“Yes.” He agreed, slowly, “Although you are to stay away from the danger.”

“I’m a herbalist, not a Witcher.” You levelled him a sarcastic stare, “Why do you think I’m hiring you?”

Again, he made that soft noise, the one that you’d come to understand meant so many things depending on the volume, or the length. This time it meant that he trusted you to be a suitable escort. He watched you pack, waited for you to say goodbye to your mule – knowing he had access to feed and fresh river-water – and followed you into the forest, the two of you swallowed quickly by the long shadows and close-knit of the pine trees.

—————

For the first couple of hours, it was almost awkward. You knew one another physically – Gods, you knew how to make him climax in less than thirty seconds when he was pent-up – but there was much unexplored of your minds. You suspected he preferred it that way, so you kept the conversation short and casual.

“Have you been busy since I saw you last?”

“No.” He admitted, “There’s less to hunt, these days.”

You agreed with a noise. “Other Witchers say the same things. They tell me how boring wraiths are.”

He chuckled at that, a rare sound, and shook his head. “What a strange thing for a human to say. And yet it’s so befitting of you.”

If you hadn’t known better, you’d have suspected he was complimenting you. “I chose a different life.”

“Hmm.” He agreed, as you walked quietly for a time. And then, “Why?”

That made you pause, thinking the simple question over. “Because… it feels right for me. I don’t remember the last time one of my village members so much as touched my hand, but your kind… they treat me with respect and dignity. I suppose I trade some aspects of your lives for some aspects of humanity.”

“Like friendships? Or… love?”

You felt something squeeze in your chest. “No, actually. Well, I’d consider much of your guild friendly. I’d defend any of them with my last breath. And love…” You raised your shoulders in a shrug, as though it was a simple topic. “Not everyone is meant to wed and birth children and live a life in a neat, square box.”

“No,” He agreed, “Some choose to live in a thicket of wildflowers with a cantankerous mule.”

Playfully, you nudged him with your shoulder. “Be nice about Pokey. Just because he bit you once–”

“Twice.”

“–Look, you should have given him the carrots instead of teasing him.”

He grinned, then; it was beautiful, a pearly glint, and your heart stumbled over its rhythm. Unthinkingly, your hand brushed against his; he blinked at the contact and glanced at you, slowing his pace. The way he regarded you never failed to make you burst into life, the rush of blood to your skin dizzying, the lustful ache in your cunt instantaneous.

He had you pinned against the nearest tree-trunk in seconds, trading moans with you as your mouths meet in a frantic kiss. You clawed his hair free of the neat tie that secured it from his features, tugging the roots, and he ran his teeth down the slope of your neck. He rucked your skirts to your waist and felt the moisture at your cunt with one finger, two; the growl he made was so dangerously wolfish that you felt robbed of breath. You felt him fumble with the laces of his breeches just enough to free his thick cock, your tiny flustered sounds bolstering him, and then he was inside you.

The stretching burn was delicious and only spiked your pleasure, a vein of pain; you tucked your knees up as he gripped your ass with his hands, using the support of the tree to anchor you. He fucked you with the fevered pacing of a couple needy from months of parting, whorls of his shattered groans at your ear, your hands unable to light upon any one part of his body. They clawed the leather of his spaulders, gripped his forearms, scratched his neck as he mercilessly drove you to a powerful orgasm, knowing exactly how to get you off. As you convulsed in his clever grip, he bit into your shoulder and flexed strongly against your trapped body, his cock jerking deep within you as he came in thick ribbons. You stroked his hair and nuzzled his ear through it, gasping, feeling the tremors within the rigid core of his disciplined abdomen.

When the frenzy passed, he gently lowered you to the ground, almost looking apologetic. You were rumpled and hot, dotted with beads of sweat, but your slow smile assured him that his advances had never been unwelcome. With thought, he reached into his bag and handed you a square of clean cloth. You placed it between your legs.

“Wanted to do that since I set foot in the shop.” He admitted gruffly, and you laughed.

“I’m impressed you held out so long.” You teased, beginning to walk again; he had to steady you as you stumbled.

“We can rest for–”

“No, it’s fine.” You assured him, “I want to get to the flowers.”

“Hmm.”

“Besides,” The flick of your lashes was sinful as you peeked up at him, “I _like_ the ache, and the feeling of your come running down my thighs.”

He pinched his teeth together and exhaled sharply through his nose. “Talk like that, and we’ll never reach the damn flowers.”

—————

You made it to the first camp without needing to stop again, although there had been a moment by a river as you’d washed when you’d almost given into the need for one another again; you’d seen it in his eyes, had bitten your lower lip, and ultimately splashed him instead. Squinting at the playful behaviour, he hesitantly flicked water back at you, and you’d protested; it had ended in wet clothes, and your giggling. He wasn’t laughing, but he was smiling.

As you lay out your bedroll, he began to build a fire. You produced dried provisions, as well as cheese and bread, and you ate your supper in the glow, lapsing into silence. You weren’t sure why – perhaps there was something romantic about the moonlight, or the way the flames lit up his peculiar eyes, but you lowered your own shield, just a little.

“Have _you_ ever wanted human things?” The smallness of your voice surprised you, “You know. Friendships? Love?”

He frowned at the question, chewing a strip of dried venison. You thought he might not answer, but when he did, it was with the same quietness as you.

“Friendships and love aren’t things that a Witcher can afford to entertain.” Something sharp stuck inside you, but you ignored it; he sounded like a textbook from Oxenfurt.

“I know they _teach_ you that,” You continued, “But what do you feel? Personally?”

“Nothing.” He replied, and there was a streak in his tone that suggested that pressing the issue would do you no favours.

The silence draped around you again, but there was something malignant about it, the feathery bristle of broken bird-wings; it felt foreboding and foreign.

As you lay down to sleep, the pull returned. Whatever magnetic iron that pumped in your blood sung for him, desiring a connection, and he was utterly helpless to resist. Under the stars, you tangled in a slow-burning rut of passion that completely shattered you both and left you achingly tired, drifting into slumber on the same bed-roll, cuddled together.

—————

The next day you stamped down the coals of the firepit, smothering the charcoal with dirt as Geralt packed your few things. You were still another day’s walk from the flower; halfway there, you planned to make another camp, and Geralt would return to you once he neutralised the threat of the water hags and rotfiends.

“Do monsters often work together?” You wondered, walking at his side.

“Sometimes.” He mused, “We are, after all.”

“Geralt!” You chided, “You’re not a _monster._ ”

He snorted, and focused on something in the distance, ever-vigilant. “I notice you don’t object to being called one, though.”

You blanched at that. So many rejections, so long without human touch – _did_ you think yourself monstrous? You knew that you were agreeable enough to look at, and smart, and kind, but beaten down by the same words enough… perhaps you’d come to believe it. “I suppose I don’t see the point.”

A grunt. He understood. “You aren’t a monster.”

“No,” You teased, trying to lighten the mood, “I’m a Witcher Woman.”

His lips quirked in a minute smirk. Some distance ahead, he thought he saw a clearing suitable for camping.

“This is nice.” You decided, pausing to pick a fern-frond that looked particularly lush, tucking it in your bag. “We don’t often get much time together, and I miss you when–” Cutting yourself off, you felt the hot sting of embarrassment punish your skin, and you whipped your head to regard him, wide of eye. “I– I mean, I don’t see you often. As much as I’d like.”

He was silent, his face impassive, and it hurt you. You felt as though he could feel the heat radiating from you from where he stood.

“Do you ever…” Gods, why couldn’t you _shut up?_ “Do you ever think about staying? In one place, I mean.”

In response, he sighed, blinking slowly. “No.” He ventured, shortly, and then added, “I can’t afford to.”

“Must you be what they made you into?” The weakness of your question made you hate yourself. You could feel him tensing further and further up as you walked.

“Yes.” He growled, “I must.”

“It’s just, I thought… well. Sometimes I think…”

“What is it you think?” He snapped, whirling to face you; in the face of his sudden angry surge, you were frozen. The loom of his shoulders was huge, his presence commanding. “Do you think we could _play house_ together, hm? Maybe we’d settle down, have a flock of fluffy sheep and grow cabbages to sell at market. Is _that_ what you sometimes think?”

“I–” You felt your throat tighten, and the swim of tears gather in your eyes.

“I’m a fucking Witcher. I don’t feel _anything_. I can’t. Not for you. Not for _anyone._ ” His teeth were bared, the vicious fury of a canine cornered. You felt your blood run cold, felt the ice of his truth frost your brittle heart. “And even if I could, why _you?_ Not even humans want you.”

The cruelty of his sentiment was worse than a direct slap in the face, and you took a step back, trembling like an orphaned fawn. He snorted. You saw pity in his eyes, and you hated it.

“There’s a clearing up ahead.” He directed, pointing. “Go make camp and wait for me there.”

Pushing past you, he continued on, intent on tracking the creatures more than half a day’s walk away. You stood rooted to the ground where he had run you through, wondering how it was that you were still breathing when he’d stolen the very atmosphere from you with his parting. Numbly, you stared until his storming figure was a distant pin-prick. Slowly, you stumbled to the appointed campsite, and sat down by the small lake there.

You cried. Ugly, wretched, gasping sobs. They tore your body apart, shook your ribcage into a split, forced you to hunch over the peat-moss and retch up saliva and bile. Your grief was all-encompassing. His brand stung your skin invisibly; outcast. Reject. _Unwanted._

—————

Never had he felt like more of a despicable devil in his life.

He’d known where you were leading, the moment you’d spoken at the campfire. He’d have to have been stupid to not see the way you looked at him, the adoration and respect shining in your eyes. It was his fault, he thought, for coming back to you again and again. He’d simply encouraged you. Pushing you away, hurting you with the most vile speech he’d ever made was the only way to keep you safe. His keen hearing picked up your primal howling, and he walked faster, seeking to reach the monsters that lay waiting for the kiss of his sword.

The hollow of his chest burned with ache.

Angrily, he examined his own stupidity. Why _was_ it that he came to your little cottage over the years? There had been times when visiting another herbalist would have been much easier, but he’d gone out of his way to see you. Your methods were proper and your product potent, he assured himself. Plus, you were a good fuck.

But what about the nights that he lay awake and thought about the smell of your hair? The way you greeted him when he entered your shop, all enthusiasm and Sunday sunshine? The fluid way you pronounced his name, as though it was the most precious word you knew?

“Fuck.” He hissed, petulantly, and began to run. The sooner he found something to execute, the better.

—————

Numbed and hollowed out by your agony, you didn’t hear the sick slurp of mud behind you in the lake. You sat there in the shell of misery, puffy-eyed and nose running, adopting a little self-soothing rock to try and hold yourself together. It wasn’t until the lone water hag slapped her disgusting wet feet behind you did you realise the danger.

It was instinct that saved you, the quick twist of your body as it lunged. You could smell the rancid creature’s mouldy skin, horrified by the stooping sight of the slimy figure that was intent upon your demise. Again it swiped, its sickle-claws slicing your skirts, and you pushed yourself to your feet. It could tell you were no fighter, at a disadvantage and apparently unarmed; it teased you with a slow stagger, pushing you further into a cluster of tree trunks where you would be pinned. Frantically, you recalled the dagger strapped at your boot, the one you used to slice fresh flowers from their stems; _silver._ Gods, you had no idea if this monstrosity was weak to the metal, but it was your only hope.

You felt the rough pine-bark against your skin as you unsheathed the weapon, panting and shivering with adrenaline; the hag attacked, and so did you. With all your might, and a short cry, you drove the dagger downward into its neck, as the same time as you felt a horrendously painful sting at your belly. The creature shrieked, flailing, dark arterial blood squirting from the mortal wound as it tried to stagger back to the safety of its pond. It fell back with a splash, flailed, and began to float, defeated.

Raggedly, you gasped, as you felt the smallest thrill of victory. But the movement stung you. When you glanced down, you saw the dire blossom of blood on your bodice, and sunk down the length of the tree, sitting at the base. The gouges were deep. Panic gripped you as you realised that even _if_ Geralt returned to you, you had no horse, no healer; even if he carried you and ran, your time would be up before you cleared the edge of the forest.

“ _Fuck you_.” You spat at the twitching corpse in the pond, and winced as the nick against your lungs made itself known. Abdominal wounds were cruel, you knew that. A slow death.

You had nothing but time to sit and mourn your own fate.

—————

The monsters never stood a chance.

Geralt thought he’d never taken an easier contract in his life. Truth be told, it was probably because he’d never fought with such pent-up frustration before; he directed all his confusion, all his anger onto the gnarled and water-wrinkled creatures, slicing limbs and dividing heads from bodies with merciless grace. He powered through the lake-water, meeting each challenge roar for roar, bestial with the attack. They fell messily at his feet, conquered.

He thrust his silver sword up through the jaw of the last water hag at the same time as he heard a very distant noise. Dispassionately he shook the thing from his weapon, and listened with eyes narrowed, begging of his sharpened senses to decipher whatever it was that had reached him. Silence; there was nothing but the lapping of the lake he’d disturbed, and the death-rattle of a few of the monsters. He swept the area with keen eyes, saw the cheerful bunches of flowers that bloomed on the edge of the water, and remembered the very reason he’d come here.

Again, the sound. His already languid pulse missed a beat as he felt a rush of pure panic bolt through his body.

It was you. You were the reason. You were _screaming_.

Again, he ran.

—————

By the time he returned to the clearing, it was dark, and you were cold with the slow embrace of approaching doom. You’d tried to press herbs into the wound, tried to sew your ruined flesh back together, but your hands were too shaky. And you knew by the sharp taste of iron on your tongue that the bleeding was much too bad for poor external stitches, anyway.

He took in the scene with fearful eyes; the hag with your dagger in its throat, the slick of your blood that the greedy ground drank in, your abandoned packs – your _fucking packs!_ He’d _ordered_ you here, to sit by a body of water he hadn’t bothered to check. No, he’d been too busy dressing you down and fighting the fear of his feelings. You’d obediently marched to follow his instructions, effectively letting him pull the noose around your neck.

“No, no, _no, no,_ ” He chanted in a rush, on his knees at your side, able to see the damage even in the low-light. “Hold on. I can… this is going to be okay.” The words were too quick, too loud; he knew the approach of mortality better than anyone. And he knew he was too late.

“Geralt.” You murmured, lifting your hand – Gods, it felt so heavy – and touching his face. “Are you really… here?”

“Yes,” He rasped, painfully, “Yes, I’m here. You’re going to be _alright._ I can get you out of here, I can… if I just…” His teeth clashed together. “Fuck!”

“It’s okay.” You assured him, coughing; the crimson of your blood coated your teeth and ran down your chin in a grim trickle. “Nothing… can be done. I know it.”

“No.” He refused, and you thought you heard him whimper. “I was supposed to _protect_ you. That’s why I came.”

Sleepily, you blinked at him. “Coin’s in… my bag.”

“Fuck the coin, I don’t _want_ the coin.” He raged, wanting to touch you, too frightened to touch you. “Please, just…” What could he do? Angrily, he searched his pockets, believing that if he wanted it badly enough, some sort of cure would appear.

“Nobody… will miss me.” Your voice was a rattle, a whisper. “S'okay.”

“That’s **not** true.” He asserted; when his hands came up empty, he found himself forced to face reality. If he didn’t hold you now, he never would again. You felt yourself lifted, and moaned raggedly at the small shiver of pain; but then his arms were around you, warm. Even in your last moments, you detested pity. But there _was_ something he could do for you.

“Take… care of Pokey?” You requested, the plea vivid in your voice. Gods, you loved that angry mule. You hoped he’d bite the Witcher again.

“I will. I promise.” He whispered, and you wondered at the broken edges of his tone. Hadn’t he only just told you how worthless you were? How he’d never love you? Why was he so upset? Didn’t he believe the legend?

“Doesn’t hurt.” You lied, hoping to soothe him. The madness of unrequited love; you were bleeding, and you were the one comforting him. He made a low sound, like a wounded dog.

“I lied.” He confessed, and you tried to keep his face in focus. What was he talking about? “I would give _everything_ up for a house with you. For the sheep, the cabbages, for a life by your side. I was too… too stupid, too fucking _stupid_ to understand how I felt. I’d stay. For you, I’d stay.”

Your mind kept trying to drift, and the edges of your vision were going dark. You heard him, and you wanted to believe him, but this was dying. Maybe this was your last reprieve; maybe this was your heaven. You coughed again, struggling to draw in breath to speak.

“Five sheep?” You asked, and he nodded fiercely.

“Ten sheep. A hundred sheep. I’d bring you all the sheep in this world.”

“They’d… eat all the cabbages.” The thread of your words slurred together.

The absurdity of it made him choke on a bitter peal of laughter. He was rocking you, pressing his forehead against your own. “Gods, but I love you.” He confessed, “I _love you_ , Witcher Woman. I think I have since we met.”

You received his sentiments in silence. He shook his head, strained his hearing, begged your heart to continue beating. But it had stilled.

—————

Witchers believed in the legend. Geralt of Rivia did, anyway. It was easier to spend a time travelling the world with a grumpy mule and an expression of stone than to open his heart to the memory of holding a simple nobody herbalist in a clearing, weeping over her body clutched to his chest, imagining a lazy wooden cottage built atop a verdant hill dotted with grazing sheep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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